The Breaking of the Wills
by Le Cosmonaute
Summary: Rose decides to see how far she can push her Doctor before he snaps, but after a certain popsicle incident, he realises that two can play that game. TenRose Formerly "Too Polite".
1. Chapter 1

It had really started rather innocently

It had really started rather innocently. All he'd done was wake up from the small bit of a sleep he took out of boredom and decided he wanted some breakfast. So far so good. He'd made toast, couldn't seem to find jam, and unhappily settled for butter. Not much harm done. And then Rose had waltzed in.

Almost literally she'd waltzed in, cradling a sundae glass of parfait. Fine, still fine. She sat down with a cheery good morning, which he'd returned in turn, finding it only slightly odd but rather nice that she wasn't in a state in the morning (he'd found out soon enough that Rose Tyler was _not_ a morning person).

But when she began to eat the delectable treat, the Doctor though, _this had to be intentional. _She had to know she was making him crazy. Every move she made, every _sound_ she uttered was perfectly timed for impact, and he _knew_ it.

Rose moaned again and he fought to focus on his toast. Every bite tasted drier with every groan of her paramount pleasure.

It had to be illegal on _some_ planet for someone to so enjoy a simple parfait. It didn't have chocolate sauce, banana, or even strawberry; it was juts plain old peppermint.

Sweet, sweet peppermint that must taste so good off those full, sweet lips of

hers, rolling off that playful tongue… The Doctor very nearly slammed his face into the toast, just to avoid seeing her lavish her attention so deliciously on the ice cream treat.

Rose allowed him to think her smiles were all about the parfait, but truly, she was sadistically enjoying watching him twitch and internally fight his obvious desire. The signs had been showing for weeks—his touches were more frequent, with less excuse, and getting more and more friendly, more and more intimate. His smiles were getting brighter, his eyes lingering on her longer and longer.

First she'd been at a loss--what if she was misreading him? What if these were just the quirks of this regeneration? She'd dreamt up every excuse for his actions, but as more time passed, she began to see the looks in his eyes, began to catch him staring what could only be described as adoringly when he thought she wasn't looking. Even her mum had backed off, as if she knew she was intruding on… something. Something new that she hadn't shared—or at least not as strongly—with the Doctor before…

And then her mind had turned to plotting. He was too polite, she thought, and she was going to push him until he snapped.

She shoved another spoonful in her mouth and pulled it out slowly and tantalisingly. Holding the spoon delicately, she lavished her tongue across its surfaces, lapping up every trace of white. She was hyperaware of the Doctor's surreptitious staring.

As Rose scooped more out of the glass—where had she even gotten a parfait? He began to suspect the TARDIS was plotting against him—the Doctor fought the desire to knock her and the parfait to the floor and lick every bit of creamy delight off her smooth, bare skin. How much more _parfait_ would the confection taste, sucked off the swell of her breasts, licked from the delectable spot when shoulder met neck? And those moans would have a harmony line of gasps added as she took pleasure in _him_, in every touch, and he would ravish her, savouring every bite, so to speak, every lick—

"Want some?" she asked innocently, displaying a full-up spoon and desperately fighting off a grin.

The Doctor wiped accumulating sweat from his forehead and suddenly became aware he was lightly panting.

"No thanks," he squeaked in an alien (so to speak) voice, gesturing to his toast. "I've got my breakfast."

"Are you sure, Doctor? It's _really_ good?" She stifled a girlish giggle with another mouthful.

She closed her eyes and tilted her head back, exposing the sensitive flesh of her neck that was just _inviting_ him to taste it. She moaned again, relishing the taste as much as the sight of the Doctor doing his best impression of a fish.

"Nope, I'm good," he said quickly. Rose sighed contentedly and he pushed his chair away abruptly, standing shakily.

"I have-have to go…wash my feet," he spluttered, abandoning his toast and rocketing through the doorway. He was _not_ falling prey to the wily charms he suspected she was employing.

Only when she heard a door slam in the distance did Rose burst out laughing.


	2. Chapter 2

He'd realised something after the incident with the popsicle. He leaned against the console, thinking hard. If Rose was trying so hard to break his will, then she _wanted_ to break his will, which meant that she _wanted_ what the breaking of said will entailed. Oh yes, he thought, Rose Tyler wanted him. And why shouldn't she? Every girl did. And a few guys if he remembered correctly.

Tilting his head back in thought, he realised that two could play that game. The Doctor would not be done in by a mere human. He would get her back, and he would make her fall first.

The Doctor wondered how best to return the favour, wondering if perhaps he should start small. And then he remembered the incident with the popsicle.

xXxXx

He looked up through the floor grate at the sound of footsteps. Following in the spirit of tantalising frozen treats, when Rose wandered into the control room, she carried a pink and yellow popsicle. The Doctor, despite his other-worldly knowledge, wasn't even aware there were pink and yellow popsicles. Before he could wonder, yet again, where she'd gotten the latest delicacy, he fell into another predicament as she began to suck on it.

The Doctor rose slowly from where he had been "working" under the console and carefully backed away. But though he distanced himself from her, his eyes remained riveted to her mouth.

Rose's lips slid slowly down the shaft of the popsicle, puckering at the base, and agonisingly crept back up, tongue smoothing the way, before cresting the top with a popping sound.

Now she sat in a chair similar to the one he'd just backed into and knocked over, and flipped through the glossies of a magazine she'd brought out with her. As she grinned at something on the page, her tongue poked out from her teeth in that way it did, before fondling idly the top of the popsicle. He'd always thought the tongue a bizarre appendage—pink, wiggly, overly-sensitive, and pretty darn gross looking--but oh how he wanted to feel hers in his mouth, touches returned with his own at that moment.

As she began once more to caress the popsicle with her lips, he wondered where else those lips could be of service.

"Doctor? You all right?" she asked sweetly. Every once in a while she'd glanced over at him. She was amazed that he didn't suspect anything—who ate a popsicle that way? It was almost obscene. But no matter if he realised a thing, the result was better than anything he'd shown her throughout the months they'd traveled. The way he was _looking_ at her was priceless. It was all she could do not to snicker.

She must have finally caught sight of him with his hands braced behind him against the console. She must have finally seen how red he was sure he'd turned. This, he thought, was the second time in a mere few days that Rose Tyler had assaulted him—not physically, but he was sure this was worse—with some sot of frozen desert and if he'd before had his doubts, he was now positive that it was intentional.

Well he was not going to snap.

"I'm always all right."

Ah-hah! He _always_ said that when he was _just_ the opposite.

Ah-hah! Was that amusement he'd seen before she glanced away?

"Are you sure? You look kinda funny." She tilted her head and ran her tongue along her bottom lip, relishing in his slight cringe. "Is there anyone I can do?"

"_What_?" he squawked, stumbling over his own unmoving feet. Rose looked at him, eyebrows raised, popsicle half out of her mouth. Sliding it out, she repeated, "Is there anything I can do?"

"Oh, thing, thing, no, nothing. Nope, not anything," he stuttered.

With another eyebrow rose she dismissed his odd behaviour.

"I just remembered something absolutely urgent to do in the next room, and no, there's no one you can do," he said in a rush, exiting quickly.

xXxXx

Oh no. It had to be big.


	3. Chapter 3

At the start he was mortified by the prospect of spending the week-end with Jackie Tyler, but he had been mollified by a single word: camping. Yes, it was out in the countryside that he would exact his revenge on the sinister woman's beautiful daughter (which made it all sound like a fairy tale).

Rose had decided days after the Popsicle Incident that it was time to return back to Powell Estates, and after hours of being unable to find an excuse that suited her, he had reluctantly agreed. And now he had the perfect plan. It would start innocently, but soon enough…. He smiled to himself as they got in the car after packing and headed off for the country.

xXxXx

"You, be of some use, would you?" Jackie Tyler suggested—although it was more of a command, really—tossing tent poles and a swath of cloth, a bag of pegs, and some rope. Of all the things he couldn't do, he was afraid, pitching tents was one of them. Why bother? He had the TARDIS. Upon their stopping in a clearing in the woods with no one round for miles, the Doctor had asked, "What are we doing?"

"Camping," Rose replied with a slightly confused grin.

"Where?"

"Right there?" She had pointed to a swatch of cleared grass and dirt. The Doctor had dropped to the ground and scrutinised every inch of it before Mrs. Tyler had commanded him to "stop being weird" and help out.

"There's nothing there," he informed Rose in whispered tones.

"That's why we have tents," she assured him.

"Tents!"

"What did you think camping was, alien boy? Five-star hotel?" Mrs. Tyler had asked, sneering. At least she'd been tame for _most_ of the trip out.

"Well, no, I just… tents?" he faltered. And then she'd tossed him the unassembled _thing_ as if expecting him to _do_ something with it.

Rose rolled her eyes and helped him out, laying out the tent, sliding the poles into their slots, pitching it up with his help, and staking the ropes.

"Some help you are, alien boy," Mrs. Tyler muttered. The Doctor was too anxious about carrying out his plan to mind the wound to his all-powerful ego. He hardly slept that night, though because he kept thinking of Rose lying next to him under the stars they'd traveled to, the galaxies they'd visited, or because of his excitement, he couldn't really tell.

xXxXx

Every morning in the TARDIS the Doctor had the chance to observe Rose, take in her appearance piece by piece, something he looked forward to. With her mother hovering and keeping a close eye on him, though, he could hardly breathe near her without a sardonic and _uncalled for_ remark.

But when lunch rolled round and all the setting-up was finished, Jackie Tyler had actually let him offer to go hiking with Rose. It was as if she trusted the bears to keep him in check, or something. They'd packed lunch and made for the mountain that resided sleepily behind their campsite, hiking well into the afternoon.

They stopped by a pool that had formed in a hollow of rock that might have been a meteor, where a river flowed into and past it. Across the middle, large boulders lay like a great belt, and the Doctor and Rose took up presence there to eat. Rose looked round her in marvel at the clear water, the woods, and the complete lack of _people_. She'd seen so much, traveled so far, and yet her own "boring" home planet still awed her at times. She'd always thought her planet to be so _small_ next to the glorious things that man had shown her, but even small could be beautiful, she realised. The Doctor jiggled his foot restlessly, hardly hearing Rose's remarks at their surroundings, though catching her laughter clearly as she delighted in the sights and talked about something or other. No matter what they saw, Rose's laughter was still something special and uniquely beautiful to him.

But now it was time to act.

He pulled a plum from his pocket, polishing it with show against his shirt, ensuring that Rose was watching him.

At his display of flairs, Rose was immediately worried, wondering what he could have up his sleeve as far as revenge went. She watched warily, lunch forgotten, as his teeth pierced the plump, bursting flesh, juice spraying gently into his mouth. Her mouth went dry as his was filled with moist, soft fruit. The skin made popping sounds when his teeth cut into it, and she could hear the squish as his teeth met round the pieces. He almost looked like a TV model, exhibiting everything in exaggerated slow motion to show how delectable a product was; the effect was the same, and she swallowed with some difficulty.

He tore off another piece, holding it suspended it his teeth briefly, allowing his tongue to loll across the pulp, before sucking it into his mouth with a wet sound that sent a tingle down her spine. She wanted to lean over to his rock and snatch the piece right from his mouth with her tongue; see how he took that. He emitted a satisfied groan simultaneous with the soft mashing of the fruit as he chewed it. Juice collected at the corner of his lips and, when the droplet fattened to a perfect jewel on his skin, broke and rolled down, tracing his jaw much as she longed for her tongue to do. She felt movement in her mouth as her fantasy communicated with her muscles. She halted any traitorous signal from her nervous system and tried to look away.

But then he moaned again and she glanced back, realising her intense desire to lick the trail of fruit sap from his skin, scraping her teeth against his jaw; to lap sticky sweetness off of every inch of him, biting and teasing to see if she could elicit such luxuriously pleasured reactions from him. She wanted to hear his moans and feel his hands buried in her hair, fingers tugging at the golden locks; the fingers that so delicately held his present treasure. She wanted him like he wanted that damned fruit.

"Why are you staring at me like that?" he asked. "Do I have something on my face?"

The Doctor laughed internally. He even made a show of swiping at his face, as if brushing something off. As if he didn't know; it had taken him such a long time to get the plum juice to drip _exactly_ where he'd wanted it.

"N-no," she stuttered amusingly. Oh, but she would cave. He knew it.

No. Just because they'd forgotten to pack napkins didn't mean she could just _lick_ it off. That would just complicate things between them. And then she started, still watching him eat with a bizarre fascination. She had _started_ this little game; and she was worrying about _complicating_ things? Who was she kidding? She _wanted_ him.

_He'll only leave you_, said a little voice. Whether he wants to or not; you're only human, after all.

She shut her eyes hard and gritted her teeth as he finished off his fruit and began to lick his fingers. The Doctor wondered if her breasts would taste like fruit. They were round and plump, like fruit. And oh, he wanted to find out. He'd wanted to for such a long time. He'd tasted everything _around_ her, now he wanted to taste _her_. But no, _he _was getting back at _her. _She thought she could bend the will of an almighty Time Lord? Ha, how naïve. He almost laughed.

The Doctor had vowed never to get involved with his companions—this, he reasoned, was not involvement; it was revenge, so it was okay. Of course it was, he reassured himself.

Whether or not she was worried about romance—welcome as it would be—Rose would not falter, if only because she had to win. Desperate as the Last Hit Woman, she had to win. But the determination grew fuzzier as her mind focused back on the Doctor and she saw what he was doing with his hand.

He sucked all the residue off each finger, and she wondered briefly what he tasted like after eating the plum. She clenched her own fingers as his tongue darted out to lap up the flavour between his knuckles. She could hardly imagine what else the tongue could do, and with his experience of years. She shivered pleasurably despite the summer temperature, imagining his tongue flicking at her earlobe, gliding down her throat as he nibbled at the tender skin. What would it feel like, sliding wetly up her thigh…?

When he got to his pinky, she could feel a warm writhing deep in her stomach and a tightness in her throat. In addition to his tongue, his lips, his teeth, what would his _fingers_ feel like, caressing her hips and thighs. She shifted on the rock she sat on, resolute to remain as still as the unmoving boulder despite her desperate urge to tackle him in the heat of lust. Oh God, she thought, she couldn't take it.

And when he licked his lips—an action so simple, so innocent as that—she lost control and launched forward, arms supporting her as she swung onto his rock. Lost was really too tame a word, though. More like, whatever control she had, she threw it halfway across the world, never to be seen again.

Finally, he thought. His fingers were getting pruney from his own spit. He wondered briefly if other parts got pruney after blowjobs. He tried not to think about that with Rose so close to him, though he wondered if maybe she'd indulge his curiosity on day.

He leaned back in satisfaction, feigning a look of curious bemusement when she seized his head in her hands, fingers burrowing in his hair. He hadn't expected her to break so easily. And he hoped he hadn't gotten her too hard, or they'd end up doing tantric dances in the water, what with how low the stones were. She was practically on top of him. No, rather he _wished_ she was on top of him, but she was close enough that he could hear her wild heartbeat.

But before she could move, there was a crash in the bushes and a deer ran out, knocking into Rose and sending her sprawling into the Doctor's lap, he into the water. He groped for a hold on something, anything, and came up with one handful of rock and one of Rose Tyler. He pulled her closer against the drag of their clothes, wishing they had less on, though for reasons other than buoyancy. When she looked up at him and he realised they were in such close proximity, he feared he'd be the loser of the game. She may have moved first, but she hadn't yet touched him.

Rose could feel the heat of his breath on her lips and yes, it smelled faintly of plum. She would have noted that his eyes were on her mouth, would have blushed and tried not to think about it. But this time she was too focused on his own.

She was about to lose a game she'd innocently begun when a wild mountain banshee screeched, "Get your hands off my daughter, you filthy alien!" The Doctor dragged himself out of the water, Rose doing the same, preparing to fight against the raging decibels of the banshee.

But it was only Jackie Tyler.

Only.

The moment had fled in much the same way he wanted to. She had begun to harangue him with some undoubtedly well-rehearsed and tailor-made tirade as she might a teenager caught canoodling with the pastor's daughter. But he wasn't listening. Without precedence or any good reason, period, she grabbed his ear and began to drag him away.

"I swear, I'll give new meaning to 'talking his ear off' when I'm done with you."

He heard Rose protesting in the distance, vaguely curious as to why the woman wouldn't listen to the daughter she was trying so manically to protect. Mostly, though, he thought about how _close_ he'd been to winning, and then! how close he'd been to kissing Rose.

He counted it as another reason on his list of why to despise domestics.

A/N: I'll be gone on vacation for a bit, but surely will be inspired. Already was, and I haven't even left (the camping). However, that means being unable to update for some days. And the tantric dancing isn't really referring to Hindu and Buddhist texts, but the twisty yoga moves that the adjective is derived from.

So this was definitely longer, and not quite as fluffy as the other two, but the most fun as far as writing went.


	4. Chapter 4

Yes. She'd known she'd need this one day or another. Granted, she'd thought it would be for edibility, but this was just as good. She reached in to the small cabinet across the room from her bed, pushing aside already-opened and probably stale bags of crisps, a jar of pickles that actually held Jell-O, and a package of beef jerky to find her special little plastic container. She exchanged its place with that of a pile of napkins and shut the door. The plastic container went next to the sandwiches and drinks, the still-hot bag of chips, and rested innocently. Rose exited her room and found the insistently calling Doctor, who was complaining that if they didn't hurry, they were going to miss it.

xXxXx

One last day of holiday, the Doctor had told her. Before they got back to the danger. He'd only been kidding, she knew; they couldn't expect danger, couldn't schedule round it, but it was nice of him to let her think they were relaxing. And it was probably true; tomorrow would most assuredly bring danger.

He'd even gone so far as to let her pick the place. Rose had said she didn't care, as long as it was incredible. And if not, she'd settle for fantastic, she'd informed him with a grin.

Her trust in his decision was not without reason, and when she'd taken his arm to step out of the TARDIS, admiring his cheeky little smile, she couldn't have expected something so beautiful. They'd landed in the middle of a field, knee-high grass almost greener than her eyes could comprehend hemming them in. It was late afternoon, and the grass sucked in brilliant tones of gold. The air itself seemed gilded, and the sun the colour of warm, dripping honey, was low on the horizon before them.

"It's so beautiful," she breathed, brushing hair that had been picked up from the wind off her forehead.

"This… is nothing," he assured her, sauntering off with both hands in his pockets. He'd long since picked out this particular spot on a hill, waiting for the right time and the right person. Now seemed as perfect as any other.

Setting down the basket she carried, Rose sprawled out beside the Doctor. She unpacked most of the food and they began to eat immediately, filling themselves on various dishes and light conversation. They talked about past excursions, what Rose had one day thought her future would be, what her childhood had been like, and the Doctor let her do most of the talking for once. He propped himself up on one elbow, drank out of a Thermos of tea, fondly remembering the incidents with the Sycorax, and watched her with his intent dark eyes.

When she began to laugh, he realised that she had stopped talking minutes ago. He'd been listening only to the sounds, the resonations, ups, and downs of her voice; not the actual words that were being spoken.

"You haven't been listening to a word I've been saying, have you?" she asked with a small smile.

'Sorry," he confessed, a little meekly. Just as she turned away to find something in the picnic basket, the Doctor thought that maybe, maybe he could surrender.

"You want some?" Rose asked, offering a small tub of red cotton candy. He accepted, pulling out a handful of fluffy spun sugar.

"There's a method to eating this, you know," he informed her in his I-Know-Everything-In-The-Universe voice.

"Yeah?" she challenged. He nodded enthusiastically, and she almost regretted pushing him so hard. As he explained how you had to hold it _just so_, and if you were going to pull pieces off with your mouth, how it had to be certain parts of said organ doing the pulling, and other strategies that he assured her would amplify the pleasure of eating simple spun sugar, she listened with a grin.

"So… like this?" she asked, holding a tuft of maraschino cotton delicately in her fingers, putting only slight pressure on the mass, not pinching too much. The very tips of those digits were _just_ buried within the scarlet, and he watched raptly—more than he should have, he knew—as she drew it towards her mouth. He watched, his own piece all but forgotten, as Rose's lips pinched the cotton and drew it into her mouth, thinking about how sticky they would be, how long it would take to lick off (quite some time) and how long he'd be willing to spend doing it (was forever long enough?). She glanced over at him, and hurriedly, he pretended not to be watching her as if he were watching a clock ticking down the very seconds of his life. He could almost hear the ticks, but they were counting down until resistance meltdown.

Eating his own cotton candy, the Doctor watched as the beings of light blew out of the sky and raced across the prairie before zooming back up to disappear in the stars. Plan momentarily forgotten, Rose stared in wonder.

"What are they?"

"They're Lumini," he replied breathily, not thinking about Rose, not feeling the warmth off her skin—how close _was_ he? Oh, maybe that was the heat of his own body. Rose shivered, and he realised that it must be chilly. Unwilling to try and wrap his head round how she could feel a breeze in the tropical heat he was feeling, the Doctor just wrapped his coat round her shoulders. She smiled in thanks.

"What are Lumini?"

"At night they come out—can't see lights except for the sun in the day—and they run across the planet. It's a sort of… recreation. Their nightlife. They can't exist on solid ground for very long, so they return quickly, but the idea of the game is to see who can stay down the longest. They're just made of light, no… well, no nothing, except for light, so the game's pretty simple. As are their lives."

"That sounds kind of nice. A simple life." She bit off more cotton candy, almost too transfixed by the Lumini to gauge the Doctor's reaction, see how much farther she should press. At his lovely impression of a goldfish, she smirked to herself and forged ahead.

"Mmm," she moaned pleasurably. "This stuff is _good_." She tilted her head back in delight to hide hr smile.

"Where did we get it, again?"

"Er… Dronos? At the… er… Carnivale."

"Ohh, right. What flavour was it, again?" The flavours, she remembered, were named after emotions, and they egged people towards the flavour they represented. They weren't too dramatic, but in large quantity they almost influenced actions directly.

"Malanay, I think they called it."

"Oh, that's right. What's that mean, again?"

Good thing they weren't having too much. She was already acutely of how close the Doctor was, how easily and wonderfully she could roll on top of him and kiss the sense out of him, how nice the cool, long, sweet, _soft_ grass might feel on her bare back, the Doctor framed by the falling and rising Lumini.

"Desire."

"Right."

Her fingers almost physically _itched_ to ruffle his hair, to run through it and to feel him all over, curiosity sated _finally_. But she couldn't give in. Not here. Here was the perfect place, and if her plan worked, she would be satisfied soon enough.

And the Doctor, who'd had the most so far, as he'd eaten it from distraction, suddenly shoved his back in the tub. She hadn't even needed to put on a display to weaken his will this time. Between the confection and the nighttime beauty, in front of him _and_ beside him, he was a goner, he was sure.

The sugar made him hyperaware of her long fingers brushing back hair, her bright eyes taking in the spectacle, the lights reflecting in her eyes. So bright, he wasn't sure what was mirror image and what was _Rose_. Her lips, all the redder from the cotton candy, were moist and so inviting, and it was a craving he couldn't remember feeling before, so intense he actually whimpered. She looked over at him, unsure of whether her plan was working or turning on her. Averting her eyes, she breathed in deeply. He watched her chest rise, so close, so soft looking, and he was _not_ thinking about it. Any of it, of her. Not the way her shirt crept up a little the way she sat, exposing a taunting ribbon of skin that wanted stroking.

She suddenly took his hand in hers.

"You're fingers are all sticky. Let me find a napkin." She'd taken care of her own with the organic napkin that was her playful tongue, much to the Doctor's dismay.

"Oh! I forgot to pack them." She thought she was pretty convincing.

"It's okay. I'll just follow your lead," he said.

"No, no, let me do it," she said with a smile. Taking his hand in hers, she actually slipped his ring finger _in her mouth_, sliding in and out, licking the stickiness off of the tip before moving on to the middle finger. She was on his index finger, tongue sweeping over it lusciously, when he almost couldn't take it, let out a small moan as she pulled the digit free of her lips. Finally on the thumb, she mischievously licked the pad, nibbling gently on the skin, murmuring something about a lump of sugar, before sliding it, too in her mouth. He thought to snatch it out, but it felt so _good_. He closed his eyes, savouring it, but the feeling was gone when she released his hand and said, "All done," much more cheerily than she felt.

She felt flustered, turned away, and took another deep breath. Rose pushed away all thoughts on the train of _what the hell was she doing_ ad closed her eyes.

"Doctor?" she said, hesitantly. The Doctor—dangerous, harbinger of death, according to many. Her Doctor—that and sweetness so sincere she almost cried sometimes, loving of so much, according to her. She spoke so breathily he wondered if it was just a shaky sigh.

When she turned her head to him, she was startled into a jolt when his face was so close to hers. His breath was a soft explosion of warm air against her cheek. He brought up a hand, letting a knuckle softly trace from cheekbone to jaw. His touch was shaky, as was hers when she lay a hand against his face.

"Rose," he whispered hoarsely. _I want you_, lingered mutually in the air, but it was stuck, with practise, deep in their throats. She sighed involuntarily, and he felt the air travel down to his neck when he realised how tight his tie felt that very moment.

His mouth was so close to hers that she could taste the cotton candy on his breath, matching the lingering flavour in her own mouth. What did it taste like, mixed with him? She could feel the pressure of anticipation against her lips, and almost felt his, softly.

_I can't do this to you_.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice _almost_ breaking. He stood up, collecting their things, and walked back to the TARDIS, Rose following behind, silently.

_I'm so sorry_.

A/N Angst! Whoa, wasn't expecting it, honestly. If I had bothered to name my chapters, this on would _definitely _be called "Almost". Anybody want to count how many times I said it?

I feel like this story started out well and snowballed downhill from there. Agree? Disagree?


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: I disclaim the fact that I am a capable human being (I can't open my ice cream! That's right folks—ice cream, _not_ frozen yoghurt). Oh, and yesterday, the really awesome bottle from Norway wouldn't open, and you know why? I was twisting the wrong way. Lying damn arrows…

Throughout the situations of peril, the Doctor hadn't even been able to _consider_ planning revenge on Rose Tyler. He had, however, been able, when being lowered down ten miles into a dank pit, to think about the act of revenge itself. He'd sworn he wouldn't do this to a companion, but revenge was not romantic. It was just… defence. He ignored the voice that asked what he was defending as his hearts deafeningly pounded the answer. And, of course, the reason to end all arguments: _she started it_.

xXxXx

Why hadn't he thought of it sooner? It was brilliant! Well, of course it was, he'd thought of it, hadn't he? The woman who was the subject of his plot, _ahem_, interest walked into the TARDIS' console room right as he'd hung up the phone.

"Where we going?" she asked, wondering who on Earth, or, in space, the Doctor could be calling.

"Oh, you'll see." He gave her a quick once-over, and said, "You'll need to change into something nicer, though."

"What's wrong with what I'm wearing?" she asked defencively.

"_Nothing_, just wear something more… formal."

"Okay," she replied uneasily. Ah Rose, he'd taught her well. Not that she'd needed it. Brilliant, clever Rose…

As Rose walked down the halls to the wardrobe, he grinned, relishing in his sure-fire. Right. Last plan he'd had was _guaranteed_ to work, but this one was _sure-fire_. Sure-fire was different.

Minutes later, the TARDIS landed, and, tearing a page from the past, from another, stranger life, the Doctor took Rose's arm and forced himself into composure as the walked out into the night.

xXxXx

He'd almost lost sight of his plan when Rose had re-entred the room, looking resplendent in a dark blue dress from the wardrobe. His eyes had travelled slowly from the silky, swishing fabric round her ankles to her slightly swaying hips to her bare shoulders, and finally to the neat blonde hair delicately piled up on her head. He'd hoped she hadn't noticed.

Right.

Rose had swallowed hard, trying to ignore his look of… what? Hunger? No, she'd seen that when they'd run out of substantial and they'd landed to find a planet filled with something spaghetti-like. Only it was lavender. Or was this a different type of hunger? she'd mused. At the very least, he'd looked like he wanted a lick.

"So why are we here? In such… formal attire?" she asked, allowing him to walk her to the door of a nearby building.

"Thought we'd eat out tonight," he replied lightly.

"Doctor, are you taking me out on a date?" He looked down at her, and knew that he couldn't refuse her if that's what she wanted it to be. That's what he wanted it to be. Where had that thought been going?

To her hair, that shone lightly in the yellow moonlight? To her lips, glossy and pink, and looking like some sort of candy that begged a taste? To the shivers that danced through her shoulders in the winter night? No… not yet, anyway.

"Well, I wouldn't call it a _date_, per se., more like an outing between friends, that happens to involve fine dining and formal wear that, so any passing stranger, might be _misconstrued_ as a… date."

"You're taking me out on a date! So what, we go save a few worlds, meet the Devil, nearly get killed a few times, and go out on a date?" She tripped with laughter, her tongue chasing the sound briefly, running over her teeth.

"Maybe we're out of food," he insisted.

"Chips are suddenly not good enough?"

He scowled in mild concentration, hunting for more excuses.

"It's fine," she said quickly, misreading his expression. "It's nice." He held the door for her and took their reserved table, out of the way and next to a window, looking out over a somewhat bio-luminescent ocean and a cloudy night sky. Their yellow moon could be seen as a shadowy apparition through the haze.

"This is really beautiful," she said. The Doctor only smiled and perused the menu. _Soon_, he thought.

Even before the Doctor had made a move, Rose knew something was up. Dining in fine restaurants… well, dining at all outside of picking up chips, was far too domestic for the Doctor. Part of her felt flattered, the other, larger part, suspicious. _Wait, _she thought. Hadn't there been a time when she was pleasantly surprised by things like this? Why the suspicion? After their last fighting incident, he had to be making it up to her, right? She considered it throughout their meal, as they talked about nothing in particular (what humans saw in Big Brother, all the technical problems with _Firefly_, why Journey to the Centre of the Earth (3D) was improbable in so many ways) and decided finally, through all his apparent sincerity, all his smiles and laughter, that yes.

He was _definitely up to something_.

After they'd finished, the Doctor held her hand over the table. Holding hands was something they did often, something Rose liked, but it was taking it to a new level when it was during dinner, when they were in a restaurant by the sea on a beautiful winter night. It was something else when he smiled at her and it was one of those moments when they should just make a move and didn't. But it was in a new setting, and the new setting elevated the gravity of the situation. Fear and a longing to throw it all to Hell and kiss him fluttered in her chest, and she shivered not from cold as he stroked his thumb over the back of her hand.

The Doctor didn't do anything… funny, like obscenely eating a plum or engaging in oral sex with a popsicle, but let the moment weaken her will. He would have cackled evilly, but a) he'd never mastered it in this regeneration and b) it would kill the mood.

Of course, he needed no assistance in that as a waitress so rudely interrupted by cheerily asking if the would perhaps like some desert, coffee, or fruit.

Rose thought about the plum.

The Doctor thought about the parfait.

Simultaneously they declined, and the waitress informed theme that the lights would be starting.

"What lights?" Rose whispered over the table, her hand still in the Doctor's.

"Ah… you'll see." He grinned at her in assurance right as the room darkened to almost black, and galaxies and auroras flooded the walls and ceiling. The Doctor had a blue aura surrounding him, Rose a purple one, and everywhere danced waves and clouds and undulations of marine colours washed over projected points of sparkling light that simulated far-off stars.

"Here," he said quietly, "You can see better from over here." They were in a corner of the restaurant, and sure enough, when Rose moved to sit beside him, her breath caught in her throat at the fuller spectacle.

She leaned into the Doctor, resting her head on his shoulder, and he held her hand as the tones changed to more fiery ones; oranges and yellows, undertones of red, smatterings of pink. Innocently, he moved his arm round her shoulders—it was winter after all, and she didn't have a coat, not that he'd removed all of them from the wardrobe—and she nestled against his shoulder. What a perfect moment, a moment that screamed for her to lean up and kiss him. She tilted her head up and watched as his attention shifted from the light display to her face, to her lips.

_Don't give in, don't initiate_, he chanted in his head, his age-old mantra of abstinence suddenly becoming stale.

A pink nebula blossomed over Rose, and in the light she was radiant. The same light ebbed as it reached the Doctor, and left him in shadow but for the small stars that added to the light freckles he had. She traced constellations on his lapels, his arms, his shoulders, his face; she disturbed the projection running fingers through his hair, watching as the stars were sucked onto her own skin.

There was a small glint of light on his lip, and she lowered her hand to touch it lightly as she leaned up. His arm dropped to round her waist, his hand covering the small of her back. She was so close to him, the pink nebula acted only as a cloak across her shoulders, not even gracing her neck.

They were a twitch away, not noticing as the light once more shifted to blues and greens, and they were cast into a plum tone. The Doctor didn't move a single muscle, didn't blink, hardly breathed, waiting for Rose's lips to touch his—

"Would you like the cheque?" The waitress cut in, and Rose quickly sat fully in her seat again, all contact lost.

"Er… yes, thanks." She disappeared, and Rose and the Doctor sat in silence. There was nothing they could say, and it was too late to move. As they left the building, the Doctor muttered, "Why couldn't they be French for _once_?"

"What?" his companion asked distantly.

"Nothing," he murmured, and when they exited the awning, it was snowing.

xXxXx

Ah, Ben and Jerry's Fossil Fuel. You know what they say: "If you can't burn it, eat it!"

And I'd like to thank to ThinkGeek website for the sudden inspiration. Oh, can you tell I like light things? I was looking at projectors on the site earlier. Positively smashing.

You know what's funny? In _Firefly_, a Companion is a legalised prostitute… so that's awkward to write.

I think next chapter's the last one. Sound good? (Speak now or forever hold thy pax,)


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Well I just saw "Turn Left" and (watch that self discipline whiz on by) immediately ran to my computer, opened YouTube, an

"Is that—"

"Snow!" The Doctor beamed at her like a four-year-old on a snow day, reaching out for Rose's hand as they walked down the already-slick wooden steps to the asphalt path below. Well, he explained, noting how Rose's hand eluded his grip, it was _like_ asphalt, but it was made of _slightly_ different compounds, and, in fact, if it came into contact with the exhaust fumes from Earth cars, it would explode. Quite quickly. But in no way was he speaking from experience.

"It's not ash or… or something?" she asked.

"No, why? Are you suddenly suspicious of snow, Rose Tyler?"

"Well, no, but… it's blue. Right? That's not the lights or anything?"

"Periwinkle, and no, the snow's actually periwinkle."

"What is with you and strangely coloured things?" she asked with a smile, an idea tickling her brain. _Snow_…_ what __about__ it? __What__ can __you__ do __with__ snow_?

"I like the colours! Lavender spaghetti, green skies, magenta suns… periwinkle snow. It's… it's nice." So caught up was he, ambling down the path towards the sea, that he didn't notice Rose scoop up a handful of the stuff that was already two feet deep. How long had they been in the restaurant? she wondered. The lights must have gone on a lot longer than it'd felt. _Wouldn't __have__ minded __if__ they'd __been__ longer…_

Convinced that the heat suddenly radiating off her body would melt the snow in her hands, she promptly chucked it at the Doctor's back. Snow must have been flung down his collar as he yelped and spun round quickly, finding Rose laughing silently at him, eyes shining, tongue between her teeth.

"Oh yeah?" he challenged, scooping snow up in his hands and packing it into a ball.

"I'll have you know I was the best shot on Gallifrey."

"Oh really? Did everyone _tr__emb__le_ in your wake, Doctor?" She attempted to escape him, but in heels, low as they were, and trying to march through snow in her dress, she was slowed enough for him to plaster her with his icy projectile. She shrieked, chucking a formless tuft of precipitation.

"You bet," he announced proudly, enunciating each syllable in that way he did when he was overconfident about something. The path they were on continued in a circular shape, enclosing a small area with a few trees that might have been pine, but fluffier, as if shedding cats climbed their branches day and night. They were ensconced heavily in lavender, and were therefore motionless in the light breeze that wafted off the roiling sea.

Rose ran into the deeper snow of the once-grassy island, hiding behind one of the trees. The Doctor, a snowball in each hand, followed close behind. As he moved towards her round the tree, she edged away, and they danced back and forth, the tree between them, each trying to start in the opposite direction of the other and end up on the same side. As she moved left, he dove right, and soon they were racing round the base of the tree, attempting to hit each other.

His jacket soaked through, the Doctor set his goal to bury Rose completely, and when she was the farthest from him, he lunged back, knocking the branches of their snow. If he'd been a second later, Rose would be up to the waist in periwinkle… but she was quick, and already halfway across the clearing. He made a mental note to ask her how she'd managed that in a dress and heels.

As he reached her, he spotted the heels on the path they hade been walking, catching the trails they'd left through the snow in addition. Chasing her, he was glad for the cold temperatures when he noted that, to run easier, she had hitched the sides of her gown up just above her knees, and her legs were exposed. _She __mus__t be cold_, he thought briefly, but most of his thoughts ran along the lines of tackling her and finally doing what he'd forbidden himself to do. _Just_…

A snowball connected with his head, and he realised that he'd been standing stationary for some moments. Rose was laughing again, and he thought that nothing horrible could ever erase that wonderful sound from his memory.

"Oi! No head hunting!" His voice was a little off pitch, she noted with amusement, but said nothing, just dancing away from him as he pitched more snow at her.

The periwinkle flakes clung to her hair and eyelashes, newly fallen ones melting on her skin after barely even a second. He briefly worried that she'd catch a fever, hypothermia, at the very least a cold. But the way she was looking at him, their lack of company from inhabitants of the planet, the past few weeks, her clothes, and the snow—all combined, rendered him powerless, _finally_, to the desire to—

The Doctor caught up with her and dragged her down into the snow with him. She laughed, tossing snow into his hair, secretly loving the way it looked, all mixed up in those wild strands, and he laughed with her, tossing some right back. The pair was suddenly still when they realised the position they were in: his arm round her waist, her hand on his chest, and their bodies pressed… _ve__ry_ close. The best part, she mused, was feeling his hearts beating in excited sync against her chest.

He looked up from studying how her leg was somehow slung over his and how the hollow of her hip was perched on his own bone, how somehow all his blood was moving southerly. Her face was as close to his as it had been during the lights, but this time he was bloody well going to do something about it.

His brown eyes looked into hers with a kind of calm urgency, a decision made, and not a small amount of desire. This close, she could see the spokes of the snowflakes that were caught in his eyelashes and hair. She could feel his hot breath against her cheek in stark contrast with the cool air, and this time she wasn't going to let him just exhale and walk away.

In fact, he wasn't sure who moved first, only that she was kissing him and he was kissing her, and her hands were in his hair, his on her hips, and there was the feeling of release surrounding them as thoroughly as the still-falling snow; contentedness as thick as the falling flakes. Her mouth was hot on his, his tongue smooth in her mouth, and the snow was soft all around them.

"So I guess we both lose," Rose murmured when he gave her a moment to breathe. He grinned.

"Rose Tyler, this is a win."

The End

A/N: Oh the cheer. All right, I've successfully forgotten for the past few chapters to sincerely thank all forty-six of you who have put this story on their alerts: thanks a heap, I appreciate it. And thank you all for reading.


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